Las 5 Cosas Que Aprendí en América Latina

5.     Cómo lavar bien la ropa por mano.

4.     Cómo abrir una chela con un encendedor.

3.     Cómo hacer un porro sin una máquina.

2.     español.

1.     Y que, no importa que pasa, todo estará bien.

Top 5 Things That I Learned in Latin America

5.     How to wash clothes by hand, well.

4.     How to open a beer with a lighter.

3.     How to roll a joint without a rolling machine.

2.     Spanish.

1.     And that, no matter what, everything works out.

Culture Shock: Coming Home

Many have asked me what, exactly, it is that I feel having returned home from over a year in Latin America.   I suppose most of us are at least vaguely familiar with the concept of culture shock.  But how can I suffer from that when I have spent so much of my life here in the States.  How can only one little trip confound me so?

Merriam Webster’s Online Dictionary defines culture shock as “a sense of confusion and uncertainty sometimes with feelings of anxiety that may affect people exposed to an alien culture or environment without adequate preparation.”  

Well, confusion and uncertainty definitely fit.  Now, perhaps in my case the shock would be lessened had I gone to New York, or New Orleans, or some other unfamiliar place.  The things is, I am intimately familiar with Northern California.  Or at least I was.  Over time, things change.  And either one changes with them, or not.  The thing about coming back to a place you once knew after an extended absence is that that place is no longer the same, at least, not completely.  For me, everything is at least familiar, sometimes exactly the same, yet half the time completely different.  And I never know which.  I live in a constant state of discovery, but for there to be discovery, there must first be uncertainty.  For me, this uncertainty is coupled with confusion, as I never know whether something is how I remember it, or one of the many things that have changed.  These feelings have, on occasion, also manifested into anxiety.

Furthermore, my mind has been reconditioned to living in less developed countries, thus making my original culture alien to me.  For example, although I had eagerly looked forward to being able to deposit toilet paper in the toilet, a week had passed before I stopped looking for the garbage can in the restroom.  Similarly, yesterday at work I was cleaning, and instinctively wrung out the towel over a floor drain.  My boss looked at me like, ‘what the fuck are you doing?’ and so I said, “well, I didn’t want to wring out a dirty towel in the sanitiser bucket.”  He replied, “that’s kinda the point of the sanitiser bucket.”  Okay, that makes sense.  Here.  But it is something that I need to recondition myself to think.  Everyday, hundreds of little things like this occur, keeping me in a virtually constant state of uncertainty.  

Normally, people do (re)adjust and acclimate to their (new) culture.  The length of time necessary dependent upon a number of variables.  I have no doubt that things will once again become familiar to me.  But it won’t happen over night.  Not even in a week. It will likely take many, many months... But it will.



NOTE:  Some would define my experience as reverse culture shock, though attributing it with the same symptoms of culture shock.  In fact, many sources cite that reverse culture shock can often be more difficult to deal with on account of it being more surprising to experience than the original shock of leaving.  I personally don’t see a need to define them differently.  

2010 Reading List: Backpacker's Literature

     Travelling through Latin America, I wasn't sure what sort of books I would get my hands on. As it turns out, there is a whole book-swapping culture out there in the world of travellers, from hostels to café book exchanges in tourist hot spots. In general, I was quite pleased with the plethora of great literature I managed to get my hands on. And of course, there were those books that every backpacker reads, like Shantaram by Gregory David Roberts and The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo by Stieg Larsson. Then there are the regional books. For instance, nearly every traveller in Bolivia reads Marching Powder by Rusty Young & Thomas McFadden. On the other hand, I sometimes found myself reading absolute trash that made me contemplate killing myself, before, of course, I thought that it would be more productive to kill the author, and rid the world of an idiot who shouldn't be published.

     At any rate, here is a list of the books that I have read this year. I had wanted to write a mini review of all of them, but it's just not going to happen. Instead, I will rate them with brief, completely arbitrary and unhelpful comments.

1	Odyssey	Homer	Classic
2	Eat, Pray, Love	Elizabeth Gilbert	Pretentious and annoying
3	Night	Elie Wiesel	Thought Provoking
4	Tuesdays with Morrie	Mitch Albom	Depressing
5	Stardust	Neil Gaiman	Fanciful
6	Skinny Legs and All	Tom Robbins	Helleresque
7	Fifth Business	Robertson Davies	Shit
8	All He Ever Wanted	Anita Shreve	It wasn't as bad as I expected
9	Rage of the Demon King	Raymond Fiest	Thoughtless diversion
10	The Prefect	Alastair Reynolds	It's not Asimov, but it's Sci-Fi
11	Half Asleep in Frog Pajamas	Tom Robbins	Still can't wait to read everything he's ever written
12	The Story of Edgar Sawtelle	David Wroblewski	Moving
13	The Iceman: Confessions of a Mafia Contract Killer	Philip Carlo	I empathised with a serial killer...
14	The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde	Robert Louis Stevenson	No comment necessary
15	Belonging	Isabel Huggan	Disappointing
16	Holes	Louis Sachar	Quick and easy, yet surprisingly fulfilling
17	The Resurrectionist	James Bradley	Intriguing
18	A Hundred Years of Solitude	Gabriel Garcia Márquez	INCREDIBLE! Easily the greatest anything I've ever read
19	The Dark Star Safari	Paul Theroux	I want to go to Africa
20	A Clockwork Orange	Anthony Burgess	Infinitely better than the film
21	House of Sand and Fog	Andre Dubus III	Thought provoking and inspired
22	The Grapes of Wrath	John Steinback	Wish I had read it sooner
23	Love in the Time of Cholera	Gabriel Garcia Márquez	Not 100 yrs, but still incredible
24	Purgatorio	Dante	Classic
25	Marching Powder	Rusty Young & Thomas McFadden	Enlightening
26	The Girl Who Played With Fire	Stieg Larsson	As good as they say
27	The Girl With The Dragon Tatoo	Stieg Larsson	Still waiting to read the third book
28	The Namesake	Jhumpa Lahiri	I don't regret reading it
29	When She Was Good	Philip Roth	I still don't remember that much, even after reading reviews
30	Not Really The Prisoner of Zenda	Joel Rosenberg	A decent distraction
31	Casino: Love & Honor in Las Vegas	Nicholas Pileggi	Fun
32	A Day Late and a Dollar Short	Terry McMillan	A must read- especially for anyone who has lived in the US
33	The Tailor of Panama	John Le Carre	Awesome
34	Angels and Demons	Dan Brown	Entertaining
35	Wicked	Gregory Maguire	Fun and thought provoking
36	The Sirens of Titan	Kurt Vonnegut	Vonnegut- enough said
37	Mother Night	Kurt Vonnegut	Vonnegut- enough said
38	The Audacity of Hope	Barack Obama	The whole world ought to read this
39	The Master and Margarita	Mikhail Bulgakov	Devilish, delightful, masterful, inspired
40	The Da Vinci Code	Dan Brown	I still don't get what all the fuss was about- it's a novel, damnit...
41	The Forever War	Joe Haldeman	Like all good sci-fi, it makes you think
42	Rendezvous with Rama	Arthur C. Clarke	More good sci-fi
43	Dark Prince	David Gemmel	Fun fantasy
44	Shot Girl	Karen E. Olson	Could have been worse
45	The Inheritance of Loss	Kiran Desai	Good, if a bit slow at times
46	The Post-American World	Fareed Zakaria	Inspiring and thought provoking look at the challenges facing the USA and it's new role in the new world order
47	Running Alone: Presidential Leadership JFK to Bush II, Why It Has Failed and How We Can Fix It	James MacGregor Burns	All profs who make this assigned reading should have their degrees revoked
48	Fools Die	Mario Puzo	One of his more inspired novels
49	Spellwright	Blake Charlton	Dr. Charlton should stick to medicine...
50	City of Bones	Michael Connelly	Page turner
51	The Second Chair	John Lescroart	Would make a better movie than book
52	Semi-detached	Griff Rhys Jones	Less enjoyable than I presumed

Fire Your Language Tutor: I Found a Better Way...

     I suck at remembering things. I am much more likely to hold something firm in my mind after reading it and copying it down. Over and over. Pure memorisation. And truth be told- that only sticks around for a while. And I'm lazy. Why do I want to put so much effort into memorising something if it's just going to fade away after awhile? I do concepts, ideas, trends- those I understand. Facts, figures, dates, not so important to me. Sorry, was yesterday your birthday? At least I know that you are a thoughtful, passionate person who always remains positive and surprisingly open minded for someone of your religious persuasion. Ah shit- was that too blunt?

     I'm not a good listener either. Now, I am actually a bit hard of hearing, so I have a difficult time differentiating sounds; I don't always hear everything people are saying to me, and well, it's not that I'm narcissistic so much as I usually have a thousand things darting about my mind, and well, I just don't always have room for more. Many of my friends have noticed this- it's funny how they don't seem to realise that maybe they need to speak a bit more clearly to me, but are the first to point out that I haven't been listening to them, so of course I don't remember when they told me that thing the first time- or the second for that matter. Which is my point, I have an especially hard time remembering things when I hear them.

     All of these things make learning a new language a bit more challenging than it might otherwise be. I don't hear clearly exactly what people say. So even if I've learned a word, I may not recognise it spoken. Conversely, if I learn a word through constant spoken repetition, I will have learned it's significance, but when I try to use it, I am likely to mispronounce it. However, through divine intervention I have discovered a much more effective tool for retaining vocabulary in other languages: sex.

     The other evening, while viscerally enjoying the company of a good friend, he asked me a question in Spanish. While I hadn't yet learned the last word of the question, there was no doubt in my mind as to what I was being asked. Later, it occurred to me to look up the word. And while the dictionary definition is quite different from his meaning- it's not that difficult to see how the slang derived from the original meaning of the word. And I guarantee, I will never forget either meaning. Furthermore, I now have a clearer understanding of Spanish's inherent thought process (the etymology of the slang usage from its original meaning), and thus am one step closer to fluency. It's like, killing three birds with one stone.

     So the next time you think about taking classes or travelling to a new country to inundate yourself in a new language, perhaps it would be more fun to first try taking a lover who doesn't speak your native tongue.

Warning: this method has not been tested in other disciplines, and has only been proven effective for the learning of other languages. Use of this method for learning other than what has been suggested is done so at your own risk. Possible side effects of attempting this method of learning in other subjects include, but are not limited to: loss of sex drive when someone calls out, “what is the square root of pi?” and loss of lover when someone asks, “how many of his wives did King Henry VIII murder or have killed?”

Serial Killers, Expats and Hippies: Where Will You Be Safest?

THE DEAL:
So, some of you may know that there are four ways to get to Panama from Colombia. One of them, to go by land, is nearly impossible (no roads, thus no buses) and quite dangerous (through the treacherous Darién Gap, a guerilla controlled territory), and thus stupid.  Another, the cheapest, is relatively safe but involves finding irregular passages on privately run mini-boats, and thus not terribly popular except with a limited class of Colombians and broke hippies.  By far the two most common ways are by air, the most popular, especially with business and tourist travel, and by independently-expat-owned sail boats that ferry backpackers through the San Blas Islands to Panama City. 
This last option is most popular with backpackers, but also by far the most expensive option at around 400-500USD for a 4-5 day trip.  
Now, in Colombia, I hung out in the ports quite a bit. Befriended the sailors.  Made contacts.  I had almost opted to run with a captian carting backpackers to Panama, but as his cook, for free passage.  But a better opportunity came up, which I shall get to in a moment.  I also had, through a series of connections, met a sailor with whom I nearly sailed the Pacific- but when we had lunch in the Bocas del Toro Islands, he had mentioned how not only did he want to see Nancy Pelosi dead- but he wanted to be the one to push her down the stairs.  You can check out his boat, Dances with Dragons so you know against whom to warn your friends should they feel like sailing around the world with a stranger.


MY CHOICE:
All right, so- the better opportunity:  I hitch hiked for two days through Colombia, from Cartagena to Turbo, whence I caught a boat to some little town whose name I forget and which I can't find on Google Maps, to Capurgana to Olbadia to El Porvenir (San Blas) to Playa Something or Other on the main land just north of the Panama Canal.  Although technically I sailed through San Blas, stopped to refuel a few times, and had lunch with some Kunas, I didn't snorkel off deserted islands or anything.  On the other hand, I did swim across the Colombia/Panama border- and had a quite different, more local, less backpacker, experience.


THE POINT:
When people learned what I was doing, they all said- 'how dangerous!'  'You can't possibly be serious.' 'Why?' et cetera, et cetera.  Now I can explain for hours how much cooler my trip was- even if I missed out on a few things, like deserted Caribbean islands.  And how safe I really was- how generous and helpful were the Colombians, and on and on.  But truthfully, there were many- even a few Colombians, who thought that I shouldn't be going to Turbo, and to be careful, bla bla bla.


THE SERIAL KILLER:
Well, I read the strangest link on Face Book.  My Australian friend posted a link with the headline: Serial Killer Javier Martin Captured in Santa Fe, Darien , and her status reading: 'so... they caught the captain we sailed with from Colombia/Panama last year...'  What the ---? And I read on...


TO REITERATE THE POINT:
I hung out in the docks in Cartagena for a month, meeting and befriending expat sailors, exchanging information and creating a network from which I could make contacts to sail the world.  I continued networking in the famed expat favoured islands of Bocas del Toro, especially popular among sailors who wait for clearance to cross the Panama Canal in these ideal islands.  It was here, in these ports, in which I passed nearly two months, that I was living close to two known serial killers.
To reiterate: when I found myself hanging around expatriots in tourist regions, I was in fact, in much more danger than when I hung out with hippies and poverty-stricken locals in the poorer regions of South and Central America.  

The Top 10 Differences Between Working In Mexico and The US

10)     If your neighbours have a WiFi connection that is not password-protected, it is acceptable to hang a sign reading 'WiFi zone'.

 9)     When the electricity goes out, which is often, it does not mean that the restaurant closes, just that you need to buy more ice.

 8)     Neither is lack of plumbing a reason for closing.  Water can easily be obtained next door.

 7)     When something breaks, it can be rigged back together with whatever is handy- how it looks is not a concern.  If said object cannot be fixed by oneself, it will not be repaired/ replaced until the staff threaten to revolt due to frustration of not having a properly functioning said object.

 6)     Change for large bills comes from neighbours, not banks.

 5)     Showing up within a half hour of your scheduled in-time is perfectly acceptable and not considered tardy.

4)     When you ask for your salary four days after you should have been paid, your bosses ask you how many days you worked and how much they're paying you.

3)     If there weren't a shrine to the Virgin Mary, complete with crucifix and candles burning at all times, we would all go to Hell.

2)     It's not sexual harassment when your bosses tell you that you need to dress more sexy at work.

1)     It's rude if you don't kiss your boss (or anyone else for that matter) every time you come and go.

II

I opened my soul
To free my mind
Only to find
That I was more free
With my apathy.

I

My heart aches as I think of you;

that it were possible- who knew?

For years I denied them their existance-

but the heart breaks through the mind's resistance;

now I find myself confronted;

my mind- my body- feel disjointed.

My heart stops at the memory

of your kiss that so tenderly

dismantled my walls, so carefully built,

fortified by years of guilt

and feer and loss and lessons learned;
that for so long I have not yearned.

The First Thing That I Noticed About Colombia

Winding my way through the humbling Andes of southern Colombia on a minibus, I was captivated by all of the people in the lively, one road towns that we passed through. Vibrant buildings, hammocks and pool tables beneath light canopies of banana leaves, dissipated into the arbour as quickly as it they had come into existence two hundred yards back. Some we passed through rapidly, and they registered as nothing more than blips in the window, each a fading mirage. Others we drove through slowly, noticing every smiling face as women carried baskets of watermelon on their heads to the minibus, men momentarily put down their pool cues, and children looked up from behind the cash register of their family's shop. The elders sat in plastic chairs, in front of every home and shop, guitars and drums resting upon their knees. Shopkeepers hung out windows and stood in doorways. All around people were working and talking and smiling.
Each town was the same, every thirty minutes coming upon another, their happiness and energy so contagious that even those of us on the bus, tired and hot, trying to wait patiently to arrive at our stops, couldn't help but be overcome by their animism. We would buy their juices and fruits, become energised and begin talking with them, and continuing amongst ourselves after we departed, until once again the heat drained our energy. The towns became our oasis, infusing us with life each time we passed. As the day wore on, and the sun faded behind the mountains, the lights of the town served as beacons in the dark while the cool night air revitalised us and the women in the towns sold chicken and soda. Throughout the entire southern region, these towns dotted the Andes like ornaments on a Christmas tree, giving off energy, love and camaraderie.
The Caribbean Coast offers more of the same, sandy white beaches replacing the lush green foliage of the mountains. From the villages to the cities and beach towns, the atmosphere does not change. Shopkeepers hang out their stores talking with the street vendors. Those who are not working visit their friends who are, seated upon plastic chairs in outdoor foyers. In every direction the narrow lanes are filled with people talking animatedly. When evening falls upon the town and shops close, folks gather in the plazas to talk about their days.
Enveloped in such an atmosphere, it is impossible not to be overcome by the joviality of Colombia. Though civil wars have cast a shadow upon this land for over a century, often throwing the country into mass depression, now there is a catharsis of good vibes permeating throughout.

Winning the Lottery

     I imagine that winning the lotto is an amazing feeling- I wouldn't know. I've only played the lotto once, and it was only because it was my turn to play Santa, and I filled the stockings with a dozen or so lotto tickets for my family and myself. Winnings were conditioned upon the fact that if anyone actually won, they had to use the money to go towards funding a family compound. I think the most any of us won was a free lotto ticket. No cash. Certainly not enough to fund a family home.

     I hear one is more likely to be stuck by lightening than to win the lottery.

     In fact, I've never really won anything. Well, I have won sports contests- but nothing like a new car, or money, or some random prize in a raffle. Wait- I won an ipod once. Funny story. I had been up all night (in Vegas) partying with my friends. When 7:00am rolled around- I was still rollin'... My friends and I were all in some sort of daze, hovering in and out of sleep, the various drugs in our systems vying for control of our mental activity. When I realised the time, I jumped off the couch, suddenly fully alert. The room full of people looked at me confusedly, still in my work uniform from my shift the previous evening.

     I've got to go! I exclaimed.

     You're not really going to that party are you? They all wanted to know. It's lame! It's not like you're going to win the ipod or anything. Somehow I had found myself in a room full of people that had all worked where I was working, had all been to the same company party, and had all been fired. I didn't even know that there was an ipod being raffled off- but apparently, they do it every year. Ironically, I did win it- the last prize awarded, and the only one I received.

     So, I do know what it's like to win something. It's a good feeling, and almost makes up for the feelings of disappointment of consistently not winning anything, an entire day full of prizes awarded, none to you. But perhaps an even better feeling would be the one you have when you tell someone that they've won something. You get to vicariously experience their joy, without the preceding trepidation of thinking that you'll never win.

     One of the greatest feelings I've ever experienced was telling someone that they won the lotto. It happened like this:

     I was sitting by a window in an internet café in Machala, Ecuador, reading a book and sipping on a cup of bad coffee while my friend surfed the internet. Machala is an unremarkable town- it feels like any suburb in The States, but closer to the Equator. Sitting in the corner, I noticed in my peripheral a man approaching. He looked flustered, holding a stack of papers in disarray, his glasses tilted, and slightly hunched over, his demeanour suggested that he was internally fighting between hopeful anticipation and disappointment, frantic and confused.

     He walked directly towards me, so I gave him my attention. In Spanish, he introduced himself, and said that my friend had indicated that I may be able to help him. The stack of papers he held were in English, which he could not read. My friend, neither a native English nor Spanish speaker, had expressed that I would be able to better help him.

     I smiled, introduced myself, and explained that I could tell him, generally, what the papers said, but would not be able to provide a direct or complete translation. He smiled eagerly, sat down, and handed me the papers.

     Before saying anything, I briefly looked over the pile. The first few pages were certificates, of sorts, and licences. Then letters and emails originating in England and Nigeria. Intrigued, I began to tell him what they were. A licence of operation. A certificate of funds awarded. A certificate of authenticity from the FBI. Then, multiple letters from a law enforcement agency in the UK, from the FBI, from some random woman in Nigeria. Also, a notice of funds transferred, and a notice of fees for funds transferred. As I read over the documents, A story began to emerge:

     The man with whom I was speaking had been told that he had won a UK lottery. When the money was to be transferred, it went from Nigeria, to the UK, the US and finally to Ecuador, sending off numerous red flags to the appropriate agencies. A Nigerian man in the UK was jailed and my new friend was informed of the apparent fraud. A week later, at the internet café, he had checked his email to find dozens of letters from the various agencies. They explained that no fraud had taken place, the Nigerian had been released from jail, the money was in the process of being transferred, for a fee of £11,000, and that he was, in fact, the recipient of £250,000.

     The only thing that didn't add up: a letter from a mysterious Nigerian woman, dated more recently than any of the other documents, saying that she hoped that she and the Ecuadorian man could keep things quiet and between them, until the matter was all sorted out. However, the dates on the other documents indicated that it had already been resolved. My only explanation: it still takes longer to get information to Nigeria than to Ecuador.

     It was a crazy story, for me reading the documents, and for the poor man whose hopes and dreams were continually raised and dashed. To be the one to tell him, definitively, that he had, in fact, won $400,000 is perhaps one of the coolest things I have ever done.

     Now, if only I got a translation fee...

Feral Dogs and the Societies That Raise Them

In the US, there are no feral dogs. Feral cats abound, an epidemic that animal lovers bemoan, in cities and towns, hills and countryside. Organisations do their best to pick them up, have them neutered and spayed, to little avail. Dogs however, do not suffer the same indecencies. A loose dog may roam about for an hour, maybe two, before it is picked up by either a good citizen or the 'doggie police.' Those dogs will be euthanised if not claimed by their former owner, or if they were in fact feral, by some family wanting to adopt them. What does that say about the citizenry of the US? I don't rightly know, as I had never given the matter much thought before coming to South America.

Since then, however, I have learned to discern a great deal about a culture through the behaviour of its wild dogs. In cities and beach towns, second- and third-world countries, I have realised that much may be deduced about a citizenry by both the way that a community treats their animals, and the behaviour of the animals themselves, which often mimics the attitudes and characteristics of the citizenry.

Before arriving in Argentina, I was told by an expatriate friend living in Buenos Aires to be prepared for the abundance of feral dogs- something that at the time, surprised me to hear. It had recently become illegal to kill feral dogs, and now they had taken over. I was admonished to look down when walking in the streets, so that I could avoid stepping in dog feces. Weird, I thought, but didn't really give the matter any more consideration. Then I arrived in Iguazu, Argentina. What surprised me most were the feral dogs inside establishments. No one kicked them out. In the hot muggy air of Iguazu Falls, dogs took their respite inside banks, shops and restaurants. I had been prepared to see them, but not inside the ATM booth. The fact that Argentines had decided that it was immoral to kill wild animals is a tribute to their compassion, especially the extent to which they live side by side with these animals, not even shooing them away from their businesses and homes. Unfortunately, the character of these dogs says something further about the attitudes of Argentines.

In Iguazu, Buenos Aires, and every other town I visited in Argentina, the feral dogs were the same: dirty, mean, usually injured, and going about living their lives doing whatever they'd like. The few that seemed like they would not bite you should you offer your hand, had open sores, their ribs poking through their matted fur coats, and mouths ajar with their dry tongues hanging out. One had to remind themselves that it would in fact be a stupid decision to offer ones hand to a feral dog. They often fought in the streets, gave chase to each other (and sometimes people) and fought over women and territory. The feral dogs, really the first that I had been exposed to, were everything that I thought they ought to be: wild, mean, and dangerous. The dog's behaviour was reminiscent of how the Argentines themselves behaved. Noses in the air, one foot carefully placed before the next, and an aura of self importance and entitlement visibly emanating from them like a heat wave in the desert. They were proud and possessive, just like their dogs.


As it turns out, though, not all ferals exhibited those same behaviours.

In Montevideo, the capitol of Uruguay, feral dogs were practically non-existent. That made sense: there were plenty of nicer places for a happy little homeless dog to go. The sparsely populated country contains plenty of rural beaches and towns for them to roam in peace; in the beach towns feral dogs abound. However, the dogs seemed more like community pets than wild beasts that only survived because it was illegal to kill them. They were friendly, followed around tourists and natives alike, and possessed nice coats and full bodies. Well fed and friendly, these dogs had a place in their community. Though Uruguayans are generally poor, they are warm-hearted, giving, and take care of each other and their communities, including the animals within them. These dogs, too, shared many characteristics with the citizenry of their communities: relaxed, friendly, and beautiful.

And so it was that I began to realise that dogs, like many things in life, are a product of their communities.

In Bolivia and Peru, feral dogs were less abundant, though still present. They were chased out of city centres and tourist areas fairly well, yet still existed in the small villages and open country. Though in these circumstances, they did not fare well. As in Argentina, they are malnourished and disease ridden. They scavenge for food in countries where there is little, and do not survive long. For outside of the few prosperous areas in these countries, whence the dogs are exiled, there is not enough to go around. Food scraps are not tossed aside, but used to feed families and livestock, and there is nothing left for an animal without a care-taker. For Bolivians and Peruvians take care of only themselves- left destitute after centuries of conquest, all that is left to them is survival. And in the larger and more prosperous cities, they shove aside tourists and dogs alike, wanting their cities to be theirs alone, after finally have gained them back from the Spanish.

After seven months of travelling South America, the first thing I noticed about Ecuador was its feral dogs. Which abound. Like Uruguay, Bolivia, and Peru, they were kept out of the prosperous cities, which were sparkling clean, developed and westernised, and left to roam the villages along the coast and in the mountainous regions. And in these places the dogs enjoyed a visible presence and place in society. Though not always well fed, the dogs in Ecuador receive plenty of attention, are friendly and playful, and eager and energetic- just like the Ecuadorians themselves. Vibrant and full of energy.

These dogs provide a good argument for nurture over nature. Regardless of the breed, these animals possessed similar qualities to those that bred them. Their treatment by society, as well as the general attitudes and characteristics of said society, would seem to heavily influence the nature of their feral dogs. Thus, the nature of a society may be aptly deduced by a quick study of the behaviours of their animals.

An American in Bolivia

   It isn't the most pain-free experience getting into Bolivia with an US Passport.  Even if your Spanish doesn't suck, you're not wanted in Bolivia, and they really don't care how much you try to speak Spanish, or the fact that  you want to be there, it really doesn't matter how much you appreciate their culture and want to experience the wonders that their country has to offer- they don't want you.
  US Citizens are the only folks in the world who have to pay to get into Bolivia, $135USD, for a five year, 90 day per year visa.  It's reciprocal, of course, but it's not my fault that the US Government makes it really hard for everyone to get into the US (of course, to be fair, it's not the average Bolivian's fault either).  Generally, US citizens, Australians and Canadians are the folks who have to pay entrance fees or get Visas, but not in Bolivia.  Here, US citizens are the only ones who have to pay when they get off the bus...  which may explain why, in the seven weeks I have been in Bolivia, I haven't encountered more than a dozen other US citizens (even though I am working in the largest hostel in Bolivia).
   So pay I did.  After all, there is too much to see and experience in South America's least developed country- the Salt Flats, Amazon, Lake Titicaca, Ruins all over...  native tribes and traditional culture that wholly (or at least mostly) leave aside and resist Western influence...
  But at every corner I meet resistance.  When checking into hostels in Sucre, Bolivia, I was constantly faced with consternation when filling out my passport and personal information- a few made negative utterances not-so-much under their breath.  Two hostels nearly turned me out- but I had a friend staying in one, and a reservation at the other, and was able to talk my way in.  In Potosi, a mining town with limited tourism, 'Fucking Grinigos' was shouted at us a number of times; once, we had a bottle thrown at our group of five, my shoulder being the unfortunate place upon which it shattered.
  Generally, I find Bolivians to be quite friendly, especially when I am able to communicate with them in Spanish.  Some places less so than others- the less tourism the less friendly.  The general feeling is that tourists bring money, and as long as they attempt to speak Spanish, and don't stay too long (90 days is the maximum anyone can get a tourist visa for), they're okay with you.  That friendliness, however, quickly changes when they learn that I'm not a Euro-gringo, I'm an American.  A typical encounter between a Bolivian and myself:  I approach someone at a market, or at the park, or in a cab, and greet them in Spanish.  We exchange pleasantries, discuss whatever brought us together, and then the conversation inevitably turns to them asking where I am from.  Now, I usually manage to avoid the answer with remarks like, 'no es importante' or 'estoy aca ahora.'  However, sometimes that isn't good enough, and then things go south- like they did one night at a club...
  After work one night a large group of us went to a club called Mongos.  When I say a large group, I mean, that around ten every evening, the staff of the hostel at which I work and the one around the corner decide where they want to go that night, and for the rest of the evening whenever a guest comes to either bar and asks 'where's the party tonight?' we have an answer.  At any rate, Mongos: mind you, this club advertises to gringos, and changes the music from traditional Bolivian music to American hip hop around three am, when we all get there.  So this surprisingly tall and attractive Bolivian man starts hitting on me, and we are speaking in Spanish for a good ten minutes, during which time he is constantly asking me where I am from, and I am giving him everything in my arsenal of deflections.   Eventually, after a concerted effort on his part, I concede and admit where I am from, at which point he turns around and walks away.  A few minutes later one hears the church bells chime three, and on cue, the music changes for the last hour of business.  I watched my would-be suitor walk out of the club at 03:01.
   When I was younger, I remember asking my sisters what it was like to be black.  After seven weeks in Bolivia and hours of tears spilt, I think I'm coming close to understanding.